Page 54 of Breaking Ophelia

The blessing.

He steps to the edge of the circle, motioning to the two men at Ophelia’s sides.

She tenses, but she doesn’t try to run. She knows the game isn’t started until they say it is.

Abelard gestures to me. “Caius Montgomery.”

Every head swivels. The Board is stone, but the Funders lean forward as if to memorize my face. The Vicious Kings do not react, but I see their boss make a subtle signal, thumb tracing his jaw.

I move to the center. My footsteps echo. My heart pounds like a war drum.

“Approach,” Abelard says.

I close the distance. The light from the torches is white-hot, washing the color from the world except for the blood and the flowers. I stop just out of arm’s reach from Ophelia, and let myself feel the drag of her gravity.

Abelard extends the dagger. “You know the tradition.”

I take the blade. It’s heavier than I expect, the grip sticky with his blood. I cut my palm, clean and deep, and don’t flinch at the sting.

Abelard turns to Ophelia. “The Hunt is not merely about dominance, but union. The blood is the contract, the flesh is the vehicle.” He nods for her to step forward.

She does, two short steps, feet white against the black stone.

He speaks to her, voice gentle. “Do you know what happens next?”

Ophelia looks at the dagger, then at my hand, then at me.

“I bleed,” she says.

“Correct.”

The Board leans forward as Abelard gestures wildly. “It is customary,” he says, “for the male to make the mark.”

I look her in the eyes. The color in them is hard to name in this light, but it’s alive, sparking with the violence of her will.

I offer her the dagger, blade first, giving her the option.

She hesitates. I wonder, for a heartbeat, if she’ll try to drive it through my throat. Then she shakes her head, her lips thinning as she reaches towards me.

Instead, she takes it, steady, and draws a line across her palm to match mine. The cut is shallow, but it beads fast. She doesn’t flinch, either. Not even when the blood starts to drip down her wrist.

Abelard nods, pleased. “Now join hands. Let the blood mix.”

I extend my hand. She stares at it like it’s a trap, then places her hand in mine. Our blood mixes, hot and slick. I squeeze hard, not to hurt, but to make it real. I want to feel the pulse of her under my skin. I want her to feel mine.

The crowd murmurs, a ripple of approval or hunger.

Abelard lifts his hands, voice loud. “Sanctificamus. Now you are holy,” he intones. “Ex duobus unum.From two into one.”

He releases us, stepping back, and the torchlight flares as if on cue. The poppies around Ophelia’s head glow black-red, her face pale beneath them, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Tonight,” Abelard announces, “the Hunt begins anew. Let all witness the courage of our chosen, and may this union survive and thrive.”

The Board stands as one, their faces impassive but their focus absolute.

The men who flanked Ophelia melt into the crowd. She’s alone in the circle, blood on her hand, staring at me.

Abelard bows to me, then to her, “The last step before the Hunt begins. Valence, bring me the dagger.”